


A Tale as Old as Time

by Leslie_Knope



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Domestic Fluff, Future Fic, M/M, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-02
Updated: 2017-08-02
Packaged: 2018-12-10 10:12:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11689500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leslie_Knope/pseuds/Leslie_Knope
Summary: Derek wakes up 12 years later in a world where, for some reason, Stiles is naked.Well, at least the sheets are comfortable.





	A Tale as Old as Time

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you [Hannah](https://exhuastedpigeon.tumblr.com/) for the read-through and the reassurance! ♥♥

Derek is not particularly accustomed to material comforts.

He’s made non-negligible progress over the years—he’s no longer living in any kind of abandoned structure, he’d like to point out—but none of that has prepared him for the bed that he wakes up in.

He’s so unbelievably comfortable that it takes him a minute to realize that this is most definitely not _his_ bed. He jerks fully awake with a start and looks around. Definitely not his bedroom, either.

It’s nicer than any bedroom he’s ever had, that’s for sure, nicely-decorated and cozy but not too fussy. There’s exposed ceiling beams, dark blue walls, and a large window with heavy drapes that fall all the way down to the hardwood floors. The wall opposite the bed is floor-to-ceiling built-in bookshelves, stuffed full with books, framed photos, and other knickknacks.

The room is empty, with soft morning light filtering in, so he sits up. The bed is a king, Derek’s pretty sure, with gray sheets that are almost painfully soft and a striped comforter. There are broad, light-colored nightstands on either side of the bed, and the one closest to him has a handsome lamp and stack of books with a pair of reading glasses on top. There’s also a framed photo, but with the way that the light is hitting it, he can’t make out what the picture is.

He takes a deep lungful of air and frowns. It smells vaguely familiar—whatever it is, it’s flickering in the back of his mind, just out of his reach—but he’s definitely never been in this house before.

Where _is_ he? If he’s been kidnapped, this is certainly the nicest place that he’s ever been kept. (It really speaks to the sad state of his life that he could rank them.) Are they trying to lull him into complacency? Nothing is really pinging his radar, though, danger-wise, and he feels perfectly awake and aware, with no lingering drowsiness from wolfsbane or other drugs.

Then there’s the sound of a toilet flushing, and Derek’s eyes snap to the closed door that must lead to the bathroom. He’s not alone. There’s a crack of light coming from the bottom, which he’s cursing himself for not noticing earlier.

The sink runs for a second, and Derek braces himself, debating whether or not he should shift. He compromises and lets his claws out, keeping them tucked under the sheets.

As the door opens, Derek’s eyes race to adjust from the dimness of the bedroom. Then the bathroom light flips off, and Derek can very easily tell that it’s _Stiles_ standing in the doorway. He exhales—he still has no idea where they are, but it can’t be that bad if Stiles is there, right?

But before Derek can ask what the fuck is going on, Stiles leans against the door jamb and yawns. “Oh good, you’re awake. It’s your turn to make breakfast.”

He scratches at his stomach, which automatically draws Derek’s attention downward. He flushes immediately and flips to face the other direction. “Fuck, why are you _naked_?”

Stiles scoffs. “I’m officially offended. I am nowhere near old enough for you to be like, _repulsed_ by my body.”

Huh? Stiles is 18, what the fuck is he talking about? Nothing about this situation makes any sense. Derek almost wishes he could blame this whole thing on some kind of alcohol-related blackout. Though that still wouldn't explain the strange house.

The mattress shifts as Stiles climbs in behind him, and his hand feels big and broad where it reaches out to touch Derek’s shoulder. “Derek? Babe, what’s going on?”

Why does he sound so _calm_? And _babe_?

“Derek, turn around, c’mon.”

Derek swallows and rolls over onto his back. Stiles is right there next to him, and they both gasp.

“Holy shit.”

Stiles is the one who speaks first. It is Stiles, absolutely, but it’s…it’s not the Stiles Derek knows. His hair is a little longer, his face sharper, and there are fine lines by his eyes. He’s definitely older. And judging by the terrified look in his wide eyes, Derek isn’t what he was expecting, either.

Derek swallows and finally finds his voice. “How old are you?”

“Thirty. How old are _you_?”

“I’m 24.”

The color drains out of Stiles’ face, and he sucks in a breath as he presses both hands over his face. “What the fuck?”

Derek has no idea what to think of any of this, but he can apparently still rely on Stiles to talk about it.

“I’ve spent half my life with fucking supernatural creatures, I should not be surprised by this.” He groans and scrubs his hands through his hair. “But I would’ve been _just_ fine not knowing about fucking _time travel_ , Jesus fucking Christ.”

“Time travel?”

Stiles finally drops his hands. “How else would you explain you suddenly showing up 12 years into the future? Your future, I mean. My present. Whatever.”

Derek has no idea. Is this…some kind of alternate universe, maybe? Or—

“What if it’s a dream?” Derek asks, but Stiles immediately shakes his head.

“This is absolutely, most definitely my real life.”

That’s fair, Derek definitely trusts Stiles’ interpretation of what’s a dream and what’s not. He nods awkwardly, but Stiles doesn’t seem to be looking at him.

“So what’s the last thing you remember?”

Derek blows out a breath and thinks. The Preserve, definitely. The whole pack was there, and they were fighting— “There…there was a witch. I got knocked out, I think.”

“I remember that,” Stiles says after a minute, and at least that’s a point in favor of them being in the same timeline or whatever. Jesus. “Vaguely. I think.”

In all of Derek’s supernatural research and knowledge—which isn’t modest—he hasn’t come across anything about time travel. He pushes _that_ terrifying thought out of his head for the moment and looks around again. Somehow, focusing on this part is less scary.

“So we…live together.”

It’s a solid guess, he presumes, considering the bedroom and the framed photo on his nightstand— _his_ nightstand?—that he can now tell is a picture of himself and Stiles. Let alone Stiles’ nudity.

But Stiles snorts and lifts his hand. “Try again.”

It takes Derek a second, but he eventually recognizes that it’s Stiles’ left hand, which sports a silver band around his ring finger.

“Wha—oh.”

“Yeah. _Oh_.”

Okay, so Derek ends up married to Stiles in the future. That’s…he has no idea what he thinks about that, actually.

“When did we, um…”

“When did we start dating?” Stiles asks, his tone wry. “Start fucking? You can say it, we’re married.”

Derek flushes. “Sorry.” Stiles doesn’t say anything, though, and sue him, but Derek is curious. “So—”

“I don’t think I should tell you.” Derek must make a face because Stiles suddenly smiles. “Aw. I kinda miss that face.”

Derek grits his teeth. “ _What_ face?” He feels unbalanced, like he’s trying to fight with one hand tied behind his back. Needless to say, he doesn’t like it.

“I call it the Sourwolf face. You don’t make it as much anymore, it’s nice. Actually—”

“Anyway,” Derek says, cutting him off. “Why shouldn’t you tell me?”

“Because when you get back to your timeline or whatever, if you remember all this, you shouldn’t _know_.”

Derek doesn’t miss the use of _when_ instead of _if_. “Yeah, and why not?”

“What if you like, try to influence it and end up screwing something up? That would be very much in your wheelhouse at your age.”

Derek tenses, offended, and Stiles’ face softens. “Sorry. You matured a lot past the age of 24, if that makes you feel better.”

Derek isn’t sure that it does.

“But hasn’t it already happened? Like I’ll go back and then know that all this happened before it does. So what if you _have_ to tell me, so that I make sure everything works out the way it’s supposed to?”

Stiles stares at him for a second and then groans before buying his face in the pillow. “Fuck, it is way too early for us to start philosophizing about how _time is a circle_ , or whatever.”

He stays sprawled out over his pillow, far more still than Derek is used to, and Derek hesitantly reaches out to pat his shoulder. “Are you okay?”

“No, not really,” Stiles says, his voice thick. “My husband is missing, I am so far from okay.”

“But I’m—”

“You’re not him.”

Derek feels weirdly offended. He _could be_ him. And, well…he’s _going_ to be him. This is strange.

Stiles is breathing heavily into his pillow, and Derek _really_ hopes that he’s not crying; he has no idea how to deal with that. Comforting people isn’t exactly his forte. He pats his shoulder again, letting it linger into what he hopes is a reassuring caress.

Derek turns the gesture into a hug, sliding his arm across the top of Stiles’ back, and Stiles eventually turns on his side toward him. He swipes his face across the pillowcase and sniffs once. “God, I’m older than you, this is so weird.”

“Does that mean I can make the old man jokes?”

He’s trying to make Stiles feel better, and it must be working at least a little because he laughs, even though it gets somewhat stuck in his throat.

“It’s only fair, probably.” The laughter dies down, and Stiles’ hand comes up to touch Derek’s jaw, just a shadow of a touch. “Your beard’s a little longer now, and it’s got gray in it. I give you so much shit for it.”

“Yeah, that sounds like you.”

“You’re really rockin’ it, though. Before long you’ll be full-on salt-and-pepper everywhere, and I’m gonna be jumping you more than I even do now. Which is a lot.”

Wow. Well, that’s—

“Sorry.” Stiles winces as he clearly thinks through his impulsive words. Good to know that some things haven’t changed. “That’s—that’s probably awkward.”

This whole _situation_ is awkward, so of course Derek has to go and make it worse by lunging forward and kissing him.

In his defense, he hasn’t kissed anyone in…a long time. And this is his _husband_ , apparently, so shouldn’t he try to comfort him in any way that he can?

Most importantly, though, Stiles is kissing back. It’s slow but the farthest thing from lazy, and soon they’re plastered together from shoulders to knees. Stiles is really fucking good at this, probably because he already knows exactly how Derek likes to be kissed.

 _Okay_ , he thinks wildly. _Future me is pretty smart_.

Stiles pulls back after a second, though, shaking his head. His hand comes up to his mouth, seemingly of its own volition.

“You—that’s…”

“You’re hard,” Derek points out because he’s going for the all-time awkward award, clearly, and Stiles’ lack of verbal filter is evidently catching.

Stiles glares at him and exaggeratedly moves back. “Yeah, well, I thought 24-year-old you was hot!”

Derek tilts his head. “Do you not think 36-year-old me is hot?”

“Ugh.” Stiles flops onto his back and folds both arms over his face. “36-year-old you is even _hotter_ , it’s so gross.”

“Sorry?” he tries, and Stiles snorts.

“Okay, I need to get out of bed, clearly nothing good can come of this.”

Derek watches as Stiles climbs out of bed. “You should probably put underwear on.”

“Fuck! Just…just close your eyes, Jesus.”

Derek obeys because he’s not _actually_ a creeper—though does it count as creeping if it’s his...husband?

Something fabric hits him in the face, and he opens his eyes to pull a very soft pair of briefs off his face. Oh—he’s naked, too. Weird.

“These are nice,” he says as he squirms them on. Stiles, who’s now thankfully wearing shorts and a t-shirt, keeps his back turned.

“You have expensive taste in random things.”

“Like what?”

“Underwear, obviously. Tea, jeans,” Stiles says, ticking the items off on his fingers, “sheets. I almost killed you when you told me how much you paid for those.”

Derek runs his hand over them again. He’d really prefer not to get out of bed if he doesn’t have to. Maybe Stiles will let him take a nap later. “They’re nice.”

“C’mon. I’m starving, and I’m freaked out, and I’d like to eat my feelings.” Stiles points to the dresser in the corner. “Please put on a shirt. Second drawer.”

Somehow, Derek drags himself away from the sumptuous sheets. He opens the second drawer of the dresser and is immediately assaulted by the smell from before. But he recognizes it now—him and Stiles. It smells _nice_ , nicer than he would have predicted, but he tries to ignore it as he picks through the clothes, selecting a plain gray v-neck that he guesses is his. It fits nicely, a little loose in the shoulders, and Stiles smirks at him when he turns around.

“That’s mine.”

Derek looks down at himself, then at Stiles. Now that they’re both standing up, he can very clearly tell how nicely Stiles has filled out. He’s wiry and strong, the same height as Derek now and maybe even a little broader. Derek’s gaze finally gets to Stiles’ face, and his eyebrows are cocked, a faint smile on his face. “Are you done?”

“Sorry,” he mutters, letting his eyes slide away, and Stiles laughs.

Derek takes a hesitant step into the hallway. He has no idea what he’s wary of, but he’s cautious as he pushes open the doors. There’s a guest room down the hall, neatly-decorated if slightly devoid of personality, and another bathroom, but the room next door to their bedroom is locked.

“What’s in here?”

A mix of expressions flit over Stiles’ face, and Derek wishes that he knew him well enough to decipher them. He feels a stab of jealousy for his older self, which is as unproductive as it is nonsensical.

“Don’t worry about it.”

Stiles turns and walks away before Derek can press him about it, so he just follows. The house is nice. Cozy, warm, and older, if the weathered hardwood floors are any indication. A place Derek could imagine himself living.

“How long have we lived here?”

“A while,” he answers vaguely, and Derek rolls his eyes.

“What city?” Derek asks. Stiles gets his stubborn face on, and Derek lets his gaze flit over to a stack of mail that he can see on the side table. “You know I could find out really easily, right?”

Stiles makes a face, pairing it with a little huff. “Fine. We’re still in California, north of Beacon Hills.”

“How’d we end up here?”

“You wanted to live anywhere that _wasn’t_ Beacon Hills and was close to both the coast and the woods.”

That—that sounds about right.

The kitchen is lovely, open and airy, and Stiles skirts the island as he makes a beeline for the coffee maker. “I wasn’t kidding, it’s your turn to make breakfast,” he says, and Derek swallows.

“I—I don’t know what we usually have for breakfast.”

Stiles freezes for a second, the line of his shoulders tightening. “We, uh, we just have eggs and toast. Sometimes bacon. But I can—”

“No,” Derek interrupts. He’s no chef, but he can manage eggs. “Fried?”

“You like them scrambled now. But—well, make them however you want. Obviously.”

“Scrambled is fine,” he says quickly. He looks around and carefully picks a skillet out of the full drying rack. It’s clearly a lived-in kitchen, with a stack of cookbooks on one shelf and canisters on the counters.

“Do we cook a lot?”

“Yeah, a fair bit. You’re really into bread right now.”

 _Interesting_ , Derek mouths. He gets the eggs started without too much trouble, after surreptitiously poking through the drawers for various utensils.

They have an actual bread box, which seems painfully domestic, and Derek finds half a loaf of sourdough inside that looks homemade and smells amazing. He hopes his future self is actually good at making bread.

When he’s done, there’s a cup of tea sitting at what he guesses is his spot at the kitchen table. He sets the plates down, and Stiles huffs a little laugh as he looks down at them.

“What?”

Stiles shakes his head. “No, it’s—nothing, it’s nothing. I just had no idea that we had so many…just little things, really. Doesn’t matter.”

“Like what?”

Stiles stands and picks up his pieces of toast, then drops them in the toaster. “Like you know that I like my toast burned to a crisp.”

“That’s disgusting.”

“And you say that almost every day.”

They start eating, and the silence is teetering on awkward.

“Do we—should we call someone?” Derek asks. “Who are you…who are _we_ , I guess, still friends with?”

“Everyone, mostly, to varying degrees.” Stiles carefully piles a clump of scrambled eggs on his blackened toast. “I don’t want to get everyone concerned just yet. I’ll check with Scott and Lydia just to make sure everything’s okay on their end, no other time traveling stragglers, then maybe I’ll do some research.”

“Still on that, huh?”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Yeah, and you’re still dependent on it.”

Derek can only imagine.

“I actually remember this happening,” Stiles continues. “You got knocked unconscious by a witch, and you were out for like 12 hours. The ages match, I was 18 then.”

“And?”

Stiles shrugs. “And then you woke up and you were fine. So maybe we just…wait? Maybe you go to sleep tonight and then you’ll be back in the right part of the timeline?”

“Sure.” Derek’s voice doesn’t sound confident, evidently, based on the glare he gets from Stiles. But he’s not in the habit of anticipating the easiest solution, sue him.

“And what do _you_ suggest, hmm?” Stiles says meanly, with an ugly snort, then catches himself and shakes his head. “Sorry. I’m not used to you not trusting me.”

What’s weird is that Derek can easily— _too_ easily—imagine a world in which he trusts Stiles implicitly. Hell, he practically does already. “Are…are things calmer now?”

“Yeah.” Stiles’ corresponding sigh is heavy and tinged with relief. “The worst of the shitstorm ended a while ago, once everyone moved out of Beacon Hills. Thank fuck.”

Derek nods. He wants to ask about pack structure, who’s where and how many alphas there are, but he has a feeling it’s one of things that Stiles wouldn’t tell him.

“The bread is good,” he says instead, lamely, but Stiles just nods.

“You’ve had a lot of practice.”

Stiles is still a fast eater, apparently, because he’s finished a good three minutes before Derek is. As soon as he sets his fork down, Stiles stands and swoops the plate away.

“So it’s a ‘I cook, you clean’ kind of deal?” Derek asks.

“Exactly,” Stiles snorts, heading for the sink, and Derek, feeling awkward in this place that’s his but also really not, roams around.

There are a bunch of things hanging on the fridge—a property tax bill, a wedding invitation with names he doesn’t recognize, a reminder card for Stiles’ dentist appointment in three weeks, a few pictures.

One of the photos catches his attention, and Derek leans closer. It’s him—he’s loath to admit it, but he’s vain enough to notice that he does, apparently, age nicely—holding a baby girl, and they’re both grinning broadly at each other. Just looking at it makes him smile faintly.

“Who’s this?” he asks, and Stiles comes up behind him. He stands close, surely habit, and Derek forces himself not to lean back.

“That’s your niece, Quinn.”

Derek swallows and carefully takes the photo off the fridge. “Really? Cora?”

“She turned 30 and decided that she wanted a child, life partner be damned.”

“Sounds like her,” he says with a snort, and holds the picture closer. “She’s adorable.”

“Uncle Derek is her favorite person in the entire world.”

He bites his lip and slides it back under the magnet. He suddenly, desperately wants this to be his future life.

“So now what?”

Stiles sighs and scratches at the back of his head. “Well, you definitely can’t go outside. Mrs. Patterson across the street will get one look at you, and then before we know it the whole town will think I’m cheating on my husband with his younger cousin or something.”

“We wouldn’t want to hurt your reputation in the neighborhood,” Derek says dryly, and the glare Stiles shoots him is familiar.

“Excuse you, I have a _fantastic_ reputation in this neighborhood. And so do you, believe it or not.”

Of all the things that Stiles has told Derek, this is perhaps the most surprising. And he’s not sure how he feels about that.

“Really?”

Stiles nods. “You’ve got quite the green thumb, it turns out. Your advice on where to plant geraniums or whatever is precious, apparently.”

“I _garden_?”

Stiles jerks his chin toward the back door off the kitchen. “Yeah.”

Derek peers out the window, and his eyebrows immediately go up. They have a big backyard, and it’s meticulously landscaped with big trees along the fence on the side, colorful clusters of neatly-maintained plants, and what looks like a flourishing vegetable garden in the corner. “Wow.”

“I know. It’s a lot of upkeep, though. I might send you out there to pull weeds, Mrs. Patterson be damned.”

Stiles leaves him mostly alone while Derek continues to poke through the house. There are pictures everywhere, both of people that Derek recognizes and people he doesn’t. There’s a whole collection of pictures from their wedding, and he stares at those for a long time. It was small, it seemed like, outside in the woods, and they didn’t wear full suits.

He ends up back in the living room, where Stiles is stretched out on a giant gray couch with a newspaper in his hands.

“Nice glasses,” he says, and Stiles looks up, sticks his tongue out at him.

“You wear them for reading, too, old man.”

Derek snorts and sits down on the chaise, which is even more comfortable than it looks.

He has so many questions—what do they do for work, where’s the Sheriff, where does Cora live—though he’s not sure how much Stiles will tell him. But more than any of them, he considers the question that’s been rolling around in the back of his mind ever since he woke up, the one that’s making him rethink every single interaction he’s ever had with Stiles.

“Just spit it out,” Stiles says, without looking up, and Derek rolls his eyes.

“Did you…did you like me? When I was this age?” Derek pauses, then grimaces. “I don’t know what verb tense to use. This is confusing.”

He smiles at him, indulgent. “We’ve talked about this. Me and _my_ Derek. Though it’s different when it’s, you know… _you_ , I guess.” Stiles is doing the crossword, it looks like, and he pauses to scribble in an answer. “I thought you were attractive. You definitely had a role in me discovering that I wasn’t totally straight, so thank you for that.”

“You’re welcome?” he offers, and Stiles snorts, shaking his head.

“But—we didn’t _really_ know each other, you know? I always figured you thought I was some annoying kid.”

“I did,” he says dryly, and Stiles reaches out to shove at him. “I used past tense!”

“You _are_ my past tense,” Stiles retorts.

“Good comeback.” Stiles laughs, and Derek lets the next words fall out of his mouth without really thinking about them. “You’re different than my Stiles.”

“ _Your_ Stiles?” he asks, his eyebrows raised, and Derek flushes.

“Just—you know what I mean.”

“Oh, do tell, please enlighten me.”

Derek takes a breath and looks at him, this version of Stiles that his future self apparently falls in love with. He likes his Stiles now, actually, both as a friend and possibly as something more, in a vague, far-off way that Derek can’t really comprehend beyond bickering and rushing to save each other’s lives.

“You’re…calmer. In a nice way. Steadier. More confident.”

Stiles is clearly pleased with his answer. “Glad to hear it. I’m happy.”

“Am I happy?”

It comes out sounding a lot more serious, a lot more _grave_ , than he intended. Stiles’ face softens even more, and he smiles. He nudges their knees together in a way that’s reminiscent of how they interact now. Well, Derek’s now.

“Unless you’re lying to me all the time, yes. You’re very happy, and we have a very nice life together. Not to toot my own horn, or anything,” he adds.

Derek nods and stands quickly. “Uh, bathroom?”

Stiles points off the front hall, and Derek steps into the small half bathroom. He pees, just for appearance’s sake, and stares at his 24-year-old self in the mirror while he washes his hands.

After the horror that was his teenage years and beyond, he’s always figured that he’s just one of those people who wouldn’t get to be happy. Which was just—well, it was what it was. But clearly, it might not be as true as he thought. If this is actually his future life… _could_ this be his life? He can’t imagine being good enough to deserve all this. Maybe Stiles is the one who helps him get there.

When Derek gets back into the living room, Stiles’ face is serious, and he actually wags his finger at him. “Okay, listen to me. If you remember anything from this whole dastardly experience, remember to _go to therapy_.”

“Therapy?” Derek makes a face, probably, because Stiles rolls his eyes.

“Yes, and don’t give me that face. It did wonders for you.”

“We didn’t get together until after you started going,” Stiles says, as a premonition or a warning, Derek isn’t sure. “It really helped you process a lot of the…well, the Kate stuff, obviously. And everything else.”

Derek swallows. He feels weirdly exposed, like Stiles knows him better than Derek knows himself. Which, he supposes, is probably true.

“It was nice,” Stiles says after a minute, apropos of nothing, and Derek frowns.

“What was nice?”

“You and me. Getting together. It was…it was just _nice_. It wasn’t, like, born out of trauma, there was no blood involved, no ‘I love yous’ on our deathbeds or anything. It was normal. Well,” he amends, “as normal as you can get in a world with werewolves. And time travel, apparently.”

Derek’s been leery of physical contact since he foolishly tried for that kiss, but he reaches out and touches Stiles’ hand, just for a second. “I’m glad. I’m looking forward to it.”

Just saying that makes him flush, hot and embarrassed with the obvious admission, but this is his _husband_. Stiles presumably knows that he likes him, _his_ Derek must tell him all the time. The thought of being so open with his emotions makes him cringe.

Which, he supposes, is why they’re not even close to being together now.

“So what’s behind that locked door?” he asks, hoping to catch Stiles off-guard. Stiles frowns at him, and Derek tries to rearrange his face into something resembling pleading. “Please?”

“Ugh, fine. I’ve never been able to resist that face, you shouldn’t know that.”

Derek smiles a tiny bit, pleased, and Stiles looks down, focuses needlessly on the newspaper in front of him. “There’s a, um, a _network_. Kind of a shadow system for fostering and adopting kids involved in the supernatural world.”

Derek blinks. “Wow. I, uh, I always thought that would be a good idea.” He’s weirdly, suddenly shy. “I couldn’t imagine what would have happened to me and Laura if we’d been younger when…well, you know.”

The smile that Stiles shoots him is a little sad. “I know. You helped create this one.”

Derek connects the dots, and all of a sudden he can’t breathe. “And we’re…”

Stiles nods. “There’s a 16-year-old down in LA, she’s due in a few months. And we’re—we’re adopting her baby.”

Holy shit, he and Stiles aren’t just married, they’re going to be _parents_. Fuck. Derek’s skin suddenly feels too small, and he tries to take a surreptitious deep breath.

“But why is the door locked?”

He smiles again, scratching at his chin. “The pack has decided that they’re furnishing and decorating it. As a surprise, apparently, so we aren’t allowed in until they’re done.”

Derek suddenly, desperately wants to see what’s inside that room.

“Do we—do you know if it’s a boy or girl?”

Stiles laughs. “No, you were very adamant that we _not_ find out.”

“Really?” Derek asks, smiling. He isn’t sure that he would have guessed that about himself.

“Yeah. At least people aren’t giving us pink or blue baby clothes, that’s a serious plus.” His face lights up all of a sudden, and he scrambles to his feet. “Hang on a second.”

Stiles comes back with what looks like a postcard in his hands, and when he sits down, they’re definitely closer than they were before. “Look.”

It’s an ultrasound photo, and if he squints, Derek can make out a vaguely baby-shaped form out of the squiggly white and black lines. “Oh, wow.”

“I know, right? You call it squirt.”

Derek smiles down at the picture—squirt, he likes it—but when he looks back up, Stiles’ eyes are shiny.

“Sorry,” he chokes out, burying his face in his hands. “It’s just…we’ve been waiting for this for so long, and now you’re—”

Derek bites his lip and wraps an arm around Stiles’ shoulder, tugging him down a little and into his chest. He’s being selfish, focusing on how much he could enjoy this life without sparing a thought for how lost Stiles must feel.

“Hey.” He tries to pitch his voice in a reassuring way, like he imagines Stiles’ Derek would, and it feels foreign. “It’s okay. It’ll be okay, I promise.”

* * *

“Derek! C’mon, man, wake up!”

Derek can hear voices above him, furiously whispering, but they’re too faint for him to pick out who they are. Everything feels safe, though, and smells familiar.

“Derek, I’ve already slapped you, don’t make me do it again.”

That’s Stiles, he thinks.

“I think he’s actually waking up this time.”

Cora’s voice now, and it’s definitely her hand that slips into his, squeezing.

He finally manages to get his eyes open and keep them there, and Cora’s relieved smile is softer than he’s used to seeing it. “Hey, there.”

“Hi.”

He’s on the couch, in his loft, and Boyd is suddenly there to help him sit up a bit. “What happened?” he asks, his voice groggy, and Lydia pops into view, leaning over the back of the couch.

“You don’t remember? You got knocked out by a witch.”

He frowns. “Vaguely. Is everyone else okay?”

“All good, Sourwolf.” Stiles shoots him the finger guns, and Derek rolls his eyes.

“How long was I out?”

“Maybe 16 hours or so?” Erica’s squeezed in with Isaac and Stiles at the other end of the sectional, and she reaches out to pat Derek’s foot. “We were all worried, though Deaton seemed to think that you’d be fine.”

“ _Are_ you, though?” Cora asks. “You feel okay?”

Derek shrugs. “My head hurts a little, I guess, but otherwise I’m…fine. Totally fine.”

* * *

Stiles wakes up snuggly and warm, like he’s lucky enough to do every single day, and he just basks in it for a minute, indulging in the perfect temperature from the coziness of their obscenely-expensive sheets and the cool air coming from the ceiling fan.

Then it hits him—the utter clusterfuck that was _yesterday_ —and he sits up with a start. Derek’s turned away from him, still asleep, so after sucking in a breath and summoning his courage, Stiles reaches out and yanks at his shoulder until he rolls onto his back.

It’s _his_ Derek, gray hairs and eye crinkles and all, and Stiles lets out a choked sob of relief.

“What?” Derek asks groggily, his eyes still closed. “What’s wrong?”

Stiles scrambles to straddle him, pressing his body over Derek’s and tucking his face into Derek’s neck. He’s definitely crying a little, and one of Derek’s warm hands comes up to press against his shoulder blade.

“Hey.” He sounds more awake now, and he starts to stroke one hand down Stiles’ back while the other cups the nape of his neck. “Babe, you gotta tell me what’s wrong. Nightmare?”

Stiles shakes his head, but it takes him another minute before he can lift his head and actually look at Derek. At Derek’s beautiful, perfect 36-year-old face, which is currently creased with worry.

“You’re gonna think I’m crazy.”

Derek laughs and shakes his head. “I trust you.”

He _does_ , and Stiles feels a sudden rush of gratitude for that. “So do you remember, like 12 years ago, when you got knocked out by that witch?”

Derek frowns. “Vaguely. Why?”

“You— _god_ , I can’t believe I’m even saying this, this sounds insane—you came _here_. While you were unconscious. Like, time travel shit. It’s totally real.”

Derek perks up at that, and he scratches his beard as he sits up a bit, leaning against the headboard. “Wow. Holy shit. Are you serious?”

“Yes! It’s _Sunday_. You missed Saturday.”

“So I was…24?”

Stiles nods and rearranges himself so that he’s draped over Derek’s side, their legs tangled together. “He kissed me!” Stiles scrunches up his nose. “Well… _you_ did. I guess. In a manner of speaking.”

Derek’s jaw drops, then he frowns. “Why—why does that make me feel jealous?”

“You didn’t wanna kiss me when you were 24, did you?”

Derek grins then, one of those happy, sly ones that show off his dimples underneath his scruff. That smile would’ve looked good on Derek’s younger face, not that Stiles ever saw it. “You wanted to kiss _me_.”

“Ugh, shut up, you know that already. I had to tell young you that, feed your ego all over again.”

“24-year-old me had a very delicate ego, I’m sure that was very helpful.” Derek turns on his side so that they’re face-to-face and curves an arm around Stiles’ waist. “Did you have sex with him?”

He’s grinning again, and Stiles groans, hiding his face in Derek’s shoulder. “ _No_ , of course not. Even kissing him was weird. Kissing _you_. Ugh, this is confusing.”

“I wouldn’t blame you. My abs were better back then, probably.”

“Disagree.” Stiles happily pats Derek’s stomach and presses a kiss to his chest. “And you still waxed your chest back then, I wasn’t so much into that.”

“Yeah, you’ve mentioned that,” Derek says dryly, and Stiles rolls his eyes. He likes Derek’s chest hair and doesn’t hold back from _expressing his appreciation_ , so what.

“Would you have sex with 18-year-old me?” he asks, and Derek’s nose scrunches up just a little.

“Probably not. No offense.”

“None taken.”

Stiles snuggles against him, fiercely happy. These are always his favorite minutes of the day—sleepy, drowsy cuddles as they slowly wake up—and he tries to memorize exactly how it feels, as fruitless as it may be. He must make some kind of noise because Derek jostles him gently.

“What?” he asks, his voice soft.

“I just—I really love you. I’m really glad that we’re here, that everything turned out like it did.”

Derek smiles and noses at Stiles’ cheek until their lips meet, sliding in the sweet, firm press of an everyday kiss.

“I love you, too.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> ♥,  
> [leslieknopeismyshiningstar](http://leslieknopeismyshiningstar.tumblr.com/)


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